


The Weremendment

by snsk



Category: Suits (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Legal, Author kind of ran with this, Crossover, Fluff, Isaac is a puppy, Lawyer Derek Hale, Lawyer Stiles Stilinski, Lawyers, M/M, Romance, allison is donna, and scott is scott, because she's a bamf like that, danny is awesome, isaac and boyd and erica and jackson are associates, lydia is rachel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 11:34:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snsk/pseuds/snsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starring Stiles Stilinski as an accidental lawyer, and Derek Hale as the best closer in town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weremendment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thelostrocketeer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelostrocketeer/gifts).



_This is the world now- a world where werewolves are not only accepted, they dominate, and they are the unofficial leaders of the world. They overthrew- not that they would use that word, but it is the only word that applies- humans some time ago, and since then have been treating them with something a lot less than respect. Not all of them, definitely not all of them, but enough to be the majority. Think Slytherins and Muggles, think wizards and house-elves, and stop rolling your eyes at my inner fanboy- Derek does enough of that, thank you very much. They now outnumber humans, and are of course stronger, swifter, and infinitely more deadly. It’s gotten better, there are Laws in place to protect humans, but not nearly enough, or properly enforced. Deaton-Hale is a firm which specializes in human-wolf relations: they aren’t like most werewolf firms, which are infinitely more biased to their own kind: they have this habit of- well, playing fair, no matter the species, which sometimes doesn’t rub well with their counterparts- who don’t get the point._

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 1**

They’ve caught Stiles’ scent: he doesn’t know why he’s still running. He’s clutching the handle of the briefcase in a death grip, tearing down two flights of stairs, and the only advantage he has is a head start: he’s going to lose that anyway, he’s racing _werewolves_ , for god’s sake. Still, he runs, survival instinct keeping his heart thumping, filling his body with hot, heady adrenaline. _Fuck._

He bursts through doors and out a corridor, where a line of guys about his age but in a lot nicer suits are milling about, some nervous in anticipation and some discussing their recent- huh, interview, it sounds like.

 

He tries to fight his way through them, give himself a bit of cover.

 

“Thomas Mayne,” a female voice calls, “Mr _. Mayne_.”

 

She sounds exasperated, like she’s called the name maybe twice before, and Stiles’ mouth says, before his brain can stop it, “Yes, here.”

 

“Hi,” the dark-haired lady says, a steely kind of gorgeous, but the smile she gives him is nice enough for the late he probably is. “In there, he’s waiting.”

 

“Okay,” Stiles says, and he opens the door.

 

And stops short, because from the Betas’ mouth into the Alpha’s, was that not the phrase, they really should amend it. Because Derek Hale. Derek _fucking_ Hale, holding out a hand, saying “Hello, Thomas Mayne?” politely, like he wasn’t a member of the most influential werewolf family in the whole of America, like he wasn’t an Alpha and couldn’t rip out Stiles’ throat with his teeth, like he wasn’t probably _the_ best lawyer in this city, like he wasn’t stupidly, broodingly, perfectly attractive (because that is of course the part Stiles’ brain chooses to focus on in this time of crisis), like Stiles isn’t holding a briefcase full of illegal hallucinogenic wolfsbane he could be sentenced to life imprisonment in a dark dank cell while a wolf with a name like Bert ruts into him for.

 

“Yes, hi,” Stiles says hurriedly, holding out his hand. “ _You’re_ Derek Hale,” he adds, stupidly, and that, of course, is the exact moment his briefcase chooses to fall open, scattering its illegal hallucinogenic contents all over the expensive rich-red hotel carpet.

 

**x**

 

To Derek’s credit, all he does is raise an eyebrow. It does, however, speak volumes of Doom, and the polite smile is definitely gone now. Stiles readies himself internally for Guantanamo Bay. He wonders whether he’ll be able to bring lube, which would definitely make it easier for when Bert decides to desecrate him.

 

“Sit down,” Derek requests, phrasing it like a polite suggestion. Stiles sits, because if he’s going to either be ripped into shreds by Alpha Hale or spend the rest of his life being reamed by Bert, he might as well be comfortable first. Derek sits too, across the table from him. It’s a nice table, all glossy wood, and Derek drums his fingers over the shiny surface before he says, “Now talk,” and yep, that’s absolutely an order.

 

“I am going to kill that motherfucker,” Stiles announces to the world at large. He plays with his tie, rolling it up distractedly while he decides, with half of his brain, how to convince Bert he’s got some horrible deadly sexual disease.

 

“What motherfucker,” Derek enquires.

 

“The one who told me it would be an easy job, a 15k easy job, and that it would be the first and last time, and that _it was easy as fuck_ ,” Stiles snaps. “All I was supposed to do was hand the thing over, I didn’t know that bastard set me up. I should have listened to Scott, which- well, you know you’ve reached a low point when Scott’s smarter than you.”

 

“Who’s Scott,” Derek asks impatiently.

 

“Oh, him- he’s my best friend. Which- oh, hey, you get one call, right? Maybe I could get him to get Danny to fake some test results for fatal STDs. I’m thinking gonorrhea which’s spread to the heart or cold sores which escalated quickly. Now they’re not my best ideas, but I’m working on a tight schedule and hoping Bert will value his own life rather more than he values my ass.”

 

“What _are you saying_ ,” Derek says, and he looks honestly confused, staring at Stiles, scary eyebrows scrunched up- which, hey, still attractive… adorable, even, _seriously_ , brain?

 

“Oh,” Stiles says. “My future cellmate. Which, okay, I get that you said to explain. Um, I’m Stiles. Stilinski. Hi. Not Thomas, here, wonder where _that_ guy is.”

 

He sighs, lets go of the tight roll of cloth which is his tie. “My dad’s in hospital, and he needs a bunch of operations,” he says. “So I found a guy.”

 

**x**

 

Derek asks: “But how did you know?”

 

“Know what?” Stiles asks. “That I was walking into a more dangerous place than the one I had just vacated? No, I guess that was just the same kind of genius that led me into this whole mess in the first place.”

 

“No,” Derek says, sounding exasperated, and it’s ridiculous that Stiles finds it slightly reassuring. “That it was a set-up.”

 

“Oh, that,” Stiles says. “Um, bell boy’s watch, that is a way too functional and efficient watch for a bellboy to have, it told time in like, seven different countries, I think. Also, Mr. Concierge had a bulge in his pocket that was _not_ him being happy to see me, it was rather to the side and shaped too angular for that.”

 

“You noticed,” Derek says, surprised-looking.

 

“I did,” Stiles says. “I notice stuff. Not Sherlock-standard, but enough. But, um, remembering things, that’s my forte.”

 

“What kind of stuff?” Derek asks.

 

“I read things. And remember them. I studied for the bar in three days, that was awesome.”

 

“The bar?”

 

“I got into law school,” Stiles says. “Specializing in interspecies relations, which- oh, the irony now. Except- stuff happened, and there wasn’t enough money, and I couldn’t go.”

 

“Three days,” Derek says, skeptically.

 

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles says, indignant. He might be a soon-to-be convicted drug dealer with a lifetime of Bert to look forward to, but this is something he’s good at, has always been- oh, hell no, this is the _one_ thing he’s _amazing_ at. “Test me.”

 

“Okay,” Derek says, slowly. “Gusteau vs Elliott.”

 

“Oh, well, easy. High-profile, controversial case in 1996, intensified French- and ultimately the world’s- debate over humans’ rights; brought up the question: if the human allows it, is it legal? Elliott was a wolf with, heh, a taste for human blood. Which is a thing with werewolves in France, I don’t even know, I don’t think _you_ have kinks like that- or maybe you have worse, I wouldn’t know, okay, I’m digressing, stop glaring at me like that. Anyway, he hooked up with Francine Gusteau in Paris, and before you know it she’s givin’ it up- whole pints of her blood for free. Her father, Antoine Gusteau, filed a lawsuit claiming that this was illegal; Elliott said that it was, ah, ‘donating blood’-“ Stiles does the airquotes- “and why shouldn’t she, anyway, it was her own body. Chief Justice Robert Tarner ruled that it was, in fact, her own body, and furthermore, that it was a human, whose blood was, of course, _way_ less important, but it sparked a worldwide discussion on how humans should be treated.”

 

Derek gets up from his chair, looks out at the window. “That was- easy. Bellafont University vs Rutherford.”

 

“Alex Rutherford was a human applicant whose applicant was rejected three times, even though he was the perfect student, 5.0 average, quarterback of the football team and prez of the debate club. And then he found out that there were werewolf applicants with significantly lower scores than his. Court ruled that species should not be a factor in applicants, that providing greater opportunities for the majority did not come at the expense of the rights of the minority, but last _I_ heard of Rutherford? Flippin’ pancakes in Virginia.”

 

“Lauren vs Hills Times.”

 

“Sutherland vs. Hills Times extended the protection offered humans in press in Germany. Sarah Sutherland, an Enforcer in Munich, had filed a libel suit against Hills Times publishing ‘inaccurate information’ about certain actions taken by the Munich Enforcers,” Stiles reels off. “In overturning a lower court’s decision, the Supreme Court held that the ‘openness and honesty’ the Enforcers were going for in their work- which, I’m sorry, but _heh_ \- would be inhibited if public officials could sue for inaccuracies that were made by mistake. The ruling made it more difficult for public officials to bring libel charges against the press.”

 

“Barrow vs Detroit Daily. Barrow filed one and won.”

 

“Barrow was in possession of several emails that one of the editors sent in which he detailed his strong dislike for Barrow. The condition is that the official has to prove that a harmful untruth was told maliciously and with reckless disregard for truth.”

 

Derek stares him, head tilted. Stiles smirks, just a bit.

 

“Budapest, 2008,” Derek says, quiet.

 

“Bakery owner made a big hoo-ha about his wife being raped and murdered while on her way home from the grocery store, accused a couple of bigwigs up there.” Stiles looks down at the table. “Enforcers testified against him; court ruled that it was him who raped his own wife. He was sentenced to life imprisonment, didn’t make it a year, he was already frail. Died in prison before his retrial. They covered it up, not a lot of people got wind of it- of how he didn’t get a fair trial, of how the judge was good friends with one Enforcer, of lots of little bits that fit together too easily to be coincidence- but I- I follow cases like that.”

 

“And what do you think?” Derek asks.

 

Stiles looks up at him. “I think they were a bunch of cold-blooded bastards who deserve to rot in hell for what they did,” he says, honest. He sighs. “That’s probably sealed _my_ fate, huh, Derek.”

 

Derek is silent for a moment, then: “I agree with you. They were.”

 

And, wow, unexpected.

 

Nobody says anything for a few minutes.

 

“This doesn’t mean I can hire you,” Derek says, finally. “You haven’t gone to law school, you’re a human, they’d tear you apart, you’re currently dealing wolfsbane and- yeah, still haven’t gone to law school.”

 

“Wait, what,” Stiles interrupts. “ _Wait_ , do you want to-“

 

Realization hits him, and oh, _oh_ , okay, he hadn’t known how much he needs _this_ until now, but he does; quite apart from sorely needing the money, it’s been a steady, lifelong ambition, the only thing he’d ever wanted to do in his life: while other kids dreamed of cowboys and detectives, he’d wanted to defend the innocent, too- except, except in a court of law. He’d wanted this ever since he’d been six years old and watched an episode of Law and Order on their staticky old tv, realized that this is what he _had_ to do when he was seventeen and watched the drunk driver who killed his mother get off with barely a slap on the wrist. He needs this, right now. And he can _do_ this.

 

“Derek,” he says. “Derek, they won’t tear me apart. You won’t regret it. I promise. I’ll work as hard as it takes to prove that I’m better than all of them out there. You know I can. You know I _am_.”

 

Derek sighs, stares at Stiles for a long, long moment- it might be perceived as a glare, but Stiles is figuring that it’s probably his default expression- walks across the room to the door, and opens it. He looks out.

 

Stiles is on the verge of rising from his chair, and is wondering how much throat Derek would rip out if he made a desperate dash right past him. He settles for Bert, which- you know, at least he’s still got a chance if Danny fakes the test results right. He will, that dude’s a genius.

 

And then- then, Stiles doesn’t know what Derek sees outside, but it’s enough to make him turn around and say, “It’s long hours. You’ll be here half the night, if not the whole night. High pressure, ridiculous expectations, and you’ll be dealing with manipulative scumbags who’ll throw you out on your ass first chance they get.”

 

“Fine,” Stiles says. “I can deal.”

 

“Well,” Derek says. “If we’re going to do this, you’d better get your story straight.”

 

He says: “Welcome to Deaton-Hale,” and Stiles nearly chokes on air.

 

**x**

 

The Enforcers catch the trail down a third floor corridor; they hesitate, seeing the line of people outside the room, but the scent is strong enough for them to barge in through the doors, ignoring the sharp order of the female human sitting outside.

 

“Yes?” Derek Hale enquires, steely. The scent is emanating from the human beside him, which they ignore, because _Derek Hale_ …

 

They stop short, apologize, back away: it was a tip-off, it was an accident.

 

“Damn right it was,” Derek Hale says, not quite a growl, but low enough for it to be a threat. “Choose your sources more wisely next time. And the next time you barge into my territory like this-“

 

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but the two Enforcers are pretty much sure of how it ends. They scurry away, still apologizing, and almost don’t hear the human saying, “Holy crap, that was _awesome_.”

 

“He’s chosen his new associate, then,” the not-bell boy comments, once they’re outside the hotel. “He’s Marked him. Not physically, at least not yet, but hell, that was strong. Did you feel it? I wouldn’t have gotten within 5 feet of the boy.”

 

“ _Human_ ,” the not-concierge says, shaking his head. “That’ll probably cause a ruckus in their circles. We might be able to get to the kid anyway.”

**x**

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This was written for Jawn, who kept reminding me to GET ON THAT just when I thought she’d forgotten all about it. She is the Arthur to my Merlin, the Jawn to my Molly, and the Derek to my Isaac. And, most importantly, she is Pack. 
> 
> 2\. The cases I have produced here have basis in actual cases that did happen; however, they all (including the names, places) should be treated as fiction, as the products of my entirely too active imagination.


End file.
